Painless
by NightKitty666
Summary: It's no secret that House takes his diagnostic genius very seriously. When that genius is questioned, he starts to doubt himself, and often becomes careless and destructive. But he's also highly arrogant, convinced that he is pretty much faultless, so he'd never really do anything too reckless to himself. Would he? House!Whump, very dark themes, set during the earlier seasons.
1. Chapter 1

**AN – So this idea for another House fanfiction has been plaguing me for a while and I finally decided to get on and write it. This is quite a dark story (trigger warnings are in the footnote so as not to spoil the plot), so read at your own discretion. This may turn into a multi-chapter fic depending on the feedback I receive, so let me know if you want more. Hopefully I'll have an update for my other House fic (Scars) soon, as Chapter 6 is in the making – keep an eye out for it!**

XXXXX

Wilson would never know for sure what precipitated the events of that afternoon. It may have been the result of their latest case, it may have been just House being House and going too far, he couldn't say for certain. The one thing he did know was that the consequences were very, very bad.

It started out with nothing too out of the ordinary; another interesting file crossed House's desk, piquing his curiosity and sending his team whirling into action. After the usual run of theories and trial diagnoses, none of which were met with any success, it once again fell to House to make a last-minute genius deduction and solve the case, saving the patient. Only they stumbled slightly when it came to that last part. House managed to finally fit the puzzle pieces together, but he was too late to stop the condition from permanently damaging the patient's organs and eventually claiming her life. Wilson knew the feeling of failure would bring a bitter taste to House's mouth, and he wasn't surprised when the diagnostician stalked out of work early that day, but he never expected it to escalate to anything more than a few days of sulking. He desperately wished House would stop proving him wrong.

XXXXX

It was late by the time Wilson had finished his paperwork. He was heading out of his office, already fantasising about getting home to his welcoming bed, when the darkened outline of the diagnostics room caught his eye, and his thoughts drifted to House. The man had had an awful day, coming so close to saving that young woman only to have his victory snatched away from him, and Wilson sighed as he realised that he really should stop by House's apartment to check on him. While he wanted nothing more at that moment than to go home and get some sleep, he knew how destructive House could be, and it wasn't in his nature to ignore it and leave House unsupervised. Running a hand wearily over his face, he trudged out to his car and let his instincts take over the steering as he wound his way through the streets towards House.

The night had fallen fully by the time he pulled up outside House's apartment complex. Shivering slightly as he got out of his car, he quickly made his way through the entrance to the building and straight to House's front door, where he gave a couple of sharp knocks. He waited several minutes, knowing it could take House a while to get to the door, but there was still no answer, so he knocked again, calling out softly, "House? It's Wilson." Again, he was met only by silence, at which point he started to get a little worried.

Wilson glanced down at his watch, but the time revealed that it was still early enough for House to be awake, and there was no tie on the door or any other indication that the diagnostician was… otherwise occupied, leaving no explanation for the man's absence. Wilson could feel his pulse begin to race slightly as he reached out and rattled the doorknob, annoyed when it refused to grant him access to the apartment. He knocked yet again, louder this time, before glancing around the dimly lit hallway for any sign of a hidden key. His spare key had been left at home, and he cursed himself now for not remembering to put it together with the keys in his pocket. Without it, all he could do was search blindly for another one beneath rugs and behind flower pots, scouring in every conceivable location in case House did in fact leave one out there. The relief that washed over him when he spotted a flash of silver underneath the corner of the carpet was immense, and he quickly tugged the key from its hiding place and slotted it into the lock. Twisting the door handle, he burst into House's living room, eyes immediately scanning the apartment for his best friend.

As he moved further into the room, he could see a shoulder appear over the back of the couch, so he stepped closer, feeling a sense of reassurance sweep through him as he saw House sleeping peacefully on his sofa. He hesitated for a moment, not wanting to wake the man up when he looked so content, but he knew that he and House needed to have a proper conversation so that he could assure himself that the diagnostician wasn't going to do anything reckless when he woke up.

He moved over to the couch, placing a hand on House's shoulder and shaking him gently. "House, wake up," he said quietly, repeating it with more volume when House didn't stir. "House," he warned, wondering if his friend was pretending to stay asleep to avoid talking to him, but he realised that House was too still to be feigning slumber. Concern began to rise in him as he hurried round to the other side of the couch to face House directly, and after a moment of studying the man's face, that's when he saw it. House wasn't breathing.

"Oh God," he muttered, immediately kneeling down in front of House, his hand going straight to the man's neck to feel for a pulse. He let out a shaky breath as he felt how weak and erratic it was; it was present, but only barely, and he knew that he didn't have much time. He glanced around the room for any clues as to the cause of House's condition, trying to work out what he was dealing with, and his heart sank when he saw the empty bottle of Vicodin on the table. Picking it up, he checked the label to find out when it had been prescribed, dismayed to see that it had only been filled that afternoon. House had swallowed a whole bottle in one go.

Before he could think, Wilson had his cell phone out of his pocket and pressed to his ear, his fingers having dialled 911 before he could process it. "911, what's your emergency?" came the operator's voice from the other end of the line, but the steady tone did nothing to soothe Wilson's rattled nerves.

"This is Dr James Wilson," he explained as calmly as he could muster. "My friend has overdosed on Vicodin. I found him in his apartment. He's comatose, he's stopped breathing and his pulse is very weak. I need an ambulance to take him to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I should be able to keep him alive until they get here, but he's in bad shape."

"Okay, sir. Can you give me your location?"

"221B Baker Street. And hurry."

"Thank you. The ambulance is on its way," the operator informed. Wilson didn't hear anything she said after that, as he was already hanging up the phone, knowing his attention was needed elsewhere. He dragged House as carefully as he could off the couch and onto the floor, crouching over him so that he could provide mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and deliver some much-needed oxygen to House's lungs. House would probably mock him for it later, but he didn't care. If he didn't do this now, House might not be alive later to make fun of him.

After the first couple of breaths, he sat up and returned his fingers to House's carotid to check his pulse, but panic began to grip his chest when he realised that it was gone. His other hand flew to House's wrist, desperate to pick up his heartrate somewhere else, but he was met with the same result. The diagnostician's heart had stopped.

"No, no, no!" cried Wilson as he instantly straddled House's torso and began administering CPR. "Don't you dare die on me, House! I'm not going to let you die!" He continued the chest compressions as hard as he could, his arms beginning to ache with the effort but refusing to give up on his friend. After what felt like an hour, the sound of sirens started to blare through the street outside, and Wilson felt a huge relief knowing that House would be getting some proper help soon. Within minutes, the paramedics were hurrying into the room through the open door, spying their patient immediately and rushing over to help. "He's in cardiac arrest," informed Wilson quickly, prompting one of the paramedics to extract a defibrillator from his bag.

"Sir, please move aside," he instructed Wilson as he knelt down next to House. Wilson did as he was asked, watching in stunned silence as the EMTs ripped House's shirt open and placed the defibrillator paddles on his bare skin. "Clear!" the paramedic called, and Wilson flinched as a pulse of electricity arced across House's chest, making his entire body convulse. The air filled with tension as the medic clamped his hand around House's wrist, before pronouncing thankfully, "he's back. Let's get him intubated and take him in."

Wilson assisted the medics in the following stages of the process, holding House's head back as they slipped the breathing tube down his throat and taking over the rhythmic contractions of the airbag as they loaded him onto a gurney and wheeled him off towards the ambulance. He helped them connect the tube to the onboard ventilator once they were safely inside the vehicle, then sat opposite House as they sped off towards the hospital, one of House's hands firmly grasped within his. He couldn't stop the feelings of anger rising whenever he looked at the man's face; he looked so peaceful, so serene, yet he had caused so much chaos and distress. It wasn't fair. Yet Wilson knew it wasn't really anger, but despair, sorrow. He cared about House more than he could say, but he was on the verge of losing his best friend for good, and he found himself struggling to cope with that. As he pictured House slipping away from him, the last of his emotional dam came crumbling down, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

 **So what do you think? I've got a lot more I want to write for this idea, so I should be back with another chapter at some point, but please leave me reviews and give me your thoughts and feedback, they're my motivation to write.**

 **Trigger warning for this story: suicide attempt – possibly successful (ah the suspense), very dark themes. Don't like, don't read. Also a great deal of House!Whump, which is kind of my style, plus some HousexWilson coming up in future chapters (maybe). Tune in next week for more!**


	2. Chapter 2

The hospital staff bustled around the ICU as Wilson sat by House's bedside, his eyes never leaving his friend's ashen face. It had been several hours since House had been brought in, and Wilson hadn't left the room once, refusing to break his vigil despite numerous attempts from Cuddy to insist he get some rest. House's condition was still unstable, the ever-present risk of another cardiac arrest weighing heavily on Wilson's shoulders, and he would not let himself out of House's sight for even a minute when he knew there was a chance he might miss his friend's final moments.

As his thoughts started spiralling back into their pattern of grief and anguish, he reached out and grabbed House's hand softly, needing something solid to touch to bring his mind back to reality. He prayed that he'd gotten to House in time; the man had been injected with activated charcoal as soon as he'd been admitted to the hospital in order to counteract the drugs in his system, but it was still too soon to tell if there was any permanent damage. House had been placed on a ventilator to regulate his breathing, as he was not yet strong enough to do it himself, and his heart monitor beeped unsteadily as his pulse remained irregular and weakened. Wilson found himself gripping House's hand tighter as he tried to hold on to the man he cared so much about, unwilling to let him slip away from him. As much as he teased House for being a pain in the ass, which in all fairness he was, Wilson knew that it would be devastating to him to lose his friend. He relied on House more than he was willing to admit, knowing that the man would always be there to support him when he truly needed. He only wished that he could have done the same for House tonight.

A noise from the doorway broke the heavy silence in the room, and Wilson looked up to see the diagnostics team hurrying through the door, Foreman leading the way. "What happened?" The neurologist asked quickly. "Cuddy just told us that House had been brought to the ICU."

Wilson could feel a tightening in his throat as he replied quietly, "he OD'd on Vicodin." Having to actually say the words out loud seemed to drive home the severity of the situation, and he had to look away to hide the tears that were returning to his eyes.

"Oh God," whispered Cameron, the usual note of concern in her voice having increased tenfold. "Do you know why he did it?"

"I have no idea. He was already unconscious when I found him."

"I always knew he was a bit unstable, but I never thought he'd do something like this," remarked Chase sombrely, glancing over at the still form of his boss lying in the bed. "Is he going to be alright?"

"I don't know, it's too early to tell." Wilson could feel a tear slip down the side of his cheek as he spoke, which he hastily wiped away, not wanting the others to know how emotional this was making him.

"Is there anything we can do for him?" Cameron asked, her tone practically dripping with sympathy. For some reason, this irritated Wilson; he knew that she was only doing this because it was her nature, and he felt like she was invalidating his own worry for House. However, he acknowledged that he might be being overprotective of his friend, so he said nothing, shaking his head as his only response.

Before any member of the team could speak further, Foreman's pager went off, drawing everyone's attention as he reached down to unfasten it from his belt and check the display. "Great," he sighed, "we have a case." He cast a forlorn look towards House before instructing his colleagues, "come on guys, let's go."

"We'd better be able to solve it," Chase commented, "otherwise he'd never let us hear the end of it." One by one, they said their goodbyes and walked away, leaving Wilson alone once more.

When he was sure the others were out of earshot, Wilson edged his chair closer to the bed and once again took House's hand in his. "House," he whispered softly. "You've got to wake up. You can't leave me like this." He hung his head as the tears began to fall freely from his eyes. "Please, House, you can't do this to me."

But there was no response.

XXXXX

The minutes turned into hours as the day dragged slowly on. Wilson had gotten one of the nurses to fetch him some files from his office; he couldn't ignore his work, but he refused to abandon House, so he sat by the man's bedside and busied himself with his paperwork as he listened to the heart monitor beep slowly on. By this point, it was well past midnight, but Wilson knew that he wouldn't get any sleep and needed something to occupy his mind, something to distract him from the pain of seeing House in that bed looking so fragile. Normally he wouldn't choose folders full of cancer patients to push aside dark thoughts, but he found himself able to distance himself from the people he was reading about, something that he couldn't do with the man lying in front of him. House wasn't just another patient passing through the ICU, he was the person Wilson cared about above all others, and it broke him to have to sit there and not be able to do anything for him. At least he had a chance of helping the patients in his files.

After working his way through about fifteen documents, Wilson could feel his eyes beginning to droop against his will, the strain of the day finally catching up to him. As much as he wanted to fight it, he knew that he needed the rest, so he closed the file he was reading, placed it on the nearby dresser and sank down into his chair, making himself as comfortable as he could in the lumpy hospital seat. His final thoughts before he drifted off to sleep were of House, and he prayed that diagnostician would still be there when he awoke.

He didn't know how long he had been asleep, but he realised it must be morning when he finally opened his eyes, noticing the sunlight filtering through the blinds on the far side of the room. Immediately, his gaze flicked over to House, and relief washed over him as he saw the gentle rise and fall of House's chest, signalling that he was still alive. Once this had been confirmed, Wilson took a moment to glance around the room, looking for any sign of a change in House's condition. An object on the nightstand caught his attention, and upon closer inspection he saw that it was a cup of coffee sitting next to a muffin and a note that said, ' _From Cuddy_ '. He smiled as he reached for the food, suddenly realising how hungry he was, and proceeded to consume it rapidly, washing it down with a sip of coffee which, to his delight, was still hot. He sat back and held the cup in his hands, soothed by the warmth it was radiating, and let his gaze fall on House's pale face. He looked so peaceful, a stark contrast to the internal torment Wilson was facing, but he was glad that at least House didn't seem to be in any pain. He could only hope that that meant he was recovering.

As Wilson sat there in silent contemplation, he was suddenly distracted by an abrupt flurry of activity coming from the lobby just outside. A glimpse at the clock on the wall told him that the first nursing shift of the day had just begun, and he turned around to watch as the corridors filled with hospital personnel, each going about their usual daily routines. He observed as one of the ICU doctors made his way into the hall, grabbed a stack of files from the receptionist, then strode across the foyer towards the room House was in. Wilson waited in anticipation for his arrival, eager to hear his prognosis of House's condition.

"Doctor Lloyd," he greeted as the man stepped into the room.

"Doctor Wilson," the man returned, then turned to face the bed. "Let's see how he's doing, shall we?"

Wilson quickly got up from his chair, and the two doctors moved to either side of the bed. Dr Lloyd removed the medical chart from its hook and began flicking through the pages, nodding to himself as he did so.

"Blood pressure's steadily increasing, pulse is stabilising, vitals remained consistent throughout the night. That all looks promising." He replaced the chart and inserted his stethoscope into his ears, rolling down House's blankets and placing the other end on his chest. After a moment, he withdrew the instrument and remarked, "his lungs are sounding stronger. I'll recommend that he's taken off the ventilator and we'll see how he does with an oxygen mask." Looking over at Wilson, he saw the expectant stare that the oncologist was giving him, and added with a smile, "you can relax, Doctor. It looks like the treatment's working."

Wilson gave out an audible sigh of relief as Dr Lloyd said the words he'd been waiting to hear. "Thank you," he replied sincerely, running a hand through his hair as he felt the tension being released from his body.

He couldn't express how grateful he was that House was going to be okay.

XXXXX

It wasn't long after Dr Lloyd's consultation when a nurse came in to switch the breathing equipment. Wilson insisted on helping her as she carefully removed the tube from House's throat, grimacing at the thought of the pain it would cause House when he woke up, then waited anxiously as she slipped the oxygen mask over his face, keeping a close eye on the vitals monitor in case House wasn't ready for the transition. After a few minutes, the diagnostician appeared to be remaining stable, which took a huge weight off Wilson's mind and allowed him to start to relax as he returned to his seat and took another sip of his coffee. He nodded politely at the nurse as she left the room, rushing to get on with her other duties, then returned his focus to House, not wanting to miss if anything went wrong.

Thankfully, there didn't seem to be any deterioration in House's condition, and several hours passed with no signs of an adverse reaction to the loss of the ventilator. Under Wilson's watchful eye, House kept breathing steadily on, his lungs adjusting well to their new workload. Once Wilson was convinced that the man was in no imminent danger, he returned to the paperwork he had been reading the night before, the folders still stacked on the dresser. He was starting to get a little restless, not having left the room for over twelve hours, so he needed a task to occupy his mind. His administration seemed as good as task as any, and he began to dutifully work his way through the files piled in his lap.

After having to make his way through a particularly long and complex set of medical records, a dull ache began to rise in the back of Wilson's head, and he lifted his gaze from the papers to give himself a moment's rest. As he did so, he took the opportunity to glance over at House, and nearly jumped at what he saw.

House's eyes were open, and staring right back at him.


	3. Chapter 3

"House..." Wilson whispered as he caught his friend's gaze, then added with a more forceful tone, "I'm going to kill you."

"Well hello to you, too," rasped House, his throat still searing from being intubated, his voice muffled by the oxygen mask.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Wilson didn't even try and keep the outrage from his voice, his pain and grief clouding his judgement.

"Uh, I was bored?"

"That's your excuse? You were bored? House, I'm sorry, but that's bullshit. You almost died! Technically, you _did_ die. You've got to stop this!" His tone softened as his expression faded from anger to concern. "Please tell me what's going on. You need help. I want to help you."

House dropped his gaze from Wilson's face as he saw the worry in his friend's eyes. He knew he'd crossed a line, and he wasn't entirely sure he could make it right. "Wilson, I'm... sorry," he said quietly. Well, it was a start. "Honestly," he continued, "I don't know what happened. I was only taking a pill for my leg and then I just... took a lot more. I don't really know why."

"House, come on. There's got to be more to it than that. I can't help you unless you're honest with me."

"That's the funny thing about patients, isn't it? They always lie."

"House," Wilson warned, and House realised he was very much not in a joking mood.

"Fine," he said reluctantly. He didn't particularly want to be having this conversation, not feeling very comfortable about revealing his insecurities to anyone, but deep down he knew that he trusted Wilson with them, and besides, he knew he wasn't getting away from this discussion.

"I guess it all just felt a bit... hopeless. The leg, the job, my pathetic excuse for a love life. It's like everyone around me had someone, and I had no one, because I pushed them all away. Hell, even Mr Bad At Relationships is happily married, while I'm alone being miserable."

"Actually, we're... separated," corrected Wilson.

"Wow. How did I miss that?" he teased, before becoming more serious. "What happened?"

"We had... different interests," Wilson sighed. "But we're not here to discuss my problems. House... you had me. Why didn't you call me?"

House refused to meet Wilson's gaze as he replied quietly, "I didn't think you'd want to hear from me."

"You're my best friend. You have to know how much I care about you, and you know I'd always want to help you."

"I know, I just... Honestly, I thought you'd be better off without me."

Wilson was not prepared for this revelation, and he had to take a moment to compose himself before he could reply. "House… I couldn't imagine what I'd do if I lost you. Seeing you in that bed, not knowing if you'd make it through the night… That was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do. And knowing that you did it to yourself and that I couldn't stop you…" He trailed off as his voice got caught in his throat, trapped there by the sobs threatening to wrack his body.

House's face fell as he saw the torment flashing in Wilson's eyes. His own eyes reflected his regret at the pain he'd caused his friend, as well as his doubt at what Wilson was telling him. He desperately wanted to believe that the words were true, but after everything he'd put the man through over the years, surely Wilson's life would be easier if he wasn't in it.

As Wilson looked up at House, the diagnostician's expression betrayed the thoughts going through his head, and he reached out to run a hand comfortingly over House's arm, careful to avoid the IV lines inserted in the crook of his elbow. "House, you have to listen to me," he soothed. "I'm not going to let you die on me. I…" He paused, about to say the three words he'd been wanting to say to House for over a year, but he realised that he wasn't sure he was ready to admit that yet. He quickly corrected himself, saying instead, "I don't want to lose you."

House finally looked up from his lap and caught Wilson's gaze, giving him a small smile as he did so. "Thank you," he replied sincerely.

Before House could say any more, his breathing suddenly started to become more laboured, and a fit of wheezing interrupted his ability to speak. Wilson was on his feet in an instant, his eyes darting over to the vitals monitor to check House's oxygen levels. He was relieved to see that they weren't dropping, meaning that the man's lungs hadn't begun to fail, but House looked to be in serious discomfort as he struggled to draw air into his chest. Grabbing a stethoscope from the instrument trolley in the corner, Wilson quickly bent down to listen to House's breaths, and he was thankful to hear that his lungs didn't seem to be in any serious trouble. "I think you just overexerted yourself," he concluded as he returned the stethoscope to the tray. "Try not to talk for a while. I know it'll be difficult for you." This final sentence was said with a reassuring smile, and House chuckled to himself as he leaned back into his pillow, trying to calm his breathing down. "You should get some rest," Wilson advised, which sounded very appealing to House as a wave of fatigue rolled over him. He nodded weakly, then slowly let his eyes fall closed, Wilson's comforting presence being the last thing he was aware of before he was pulled down into sleep.

XXXXX

The glare of the fluorescent lights was the first thing House noticed when he began to come to once more. He squinted as he slowly opened his eyes, taking a moment to let his vision adjust before scanning his surroundings for signs of anything interesting going on. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked round to see Wilson still sitting in his chair, happily eating a sandwich as he read through a medical file.

"Hey," he called softly, attracting the other man's attention.

"Hey," Wilson returned as he immediately put down his paperwork. "How do you feel?"

"Better." House hesitated before adding, "you didn't have to stay here."

"Come on, you know I wasn't going to leave you. You do something stupid, I stick around to clean up the mess." Wilson's tone was light-hearted and playful, but it sent guilt coursing through House's mind.

"Right," he said quietly, dropping his gaze from Wilson's face.

The oncologist instantly picked up on House's change in mood and began to regret his last comment. "House, it was a joke," he reassured, trying not to let House's emotions get on top of him again.

"I know. I'm just... I'm sorry for everything I put you through."

"You're the one who was in pain, and I wasn't there for you. I should be the one apologising to you."

"You didn't do anything wrong! It was me, I'm the one who screwed up. With the patient, with my life. It was my fault, not yours!"

"House, you've got to stop this. You can't keep thinking this way. You were upset, you were depressed. It got on top of you. But it wasn't your fault. All those thoughts that you're having, they're not real. You've got to understand that."

There was a long pause, before House started nodding slowly. "Okay," he conceded as he finally met Wilson's gaze again. "Thank you."

"Thank you for sticking around. We need you here."

"Well, that's true," House smirked. "If I wasn't here, there'd be no one to tell you how awful you look."

Wilson scoffed, pretending to look affronted. "In my defence, I have been in this room for almost 24 hours because of you."

"Wait, you... slept here? How did you sneak past the duty nurse?" House's tone was a mixture of both teasing and genuine curiosity.

"I think she knew better than to argue with me at that point. I was staying here whether she let me or not."

"How very chivalrous of you," House said with a flirtatious smile, causing Wilson to roll his eyes.

"Don't expect any more from me, I've had a very long night."

House gave him a mischievous smirk. "Can I at least expect you to bring me a cup of coffee?"

"If you ask nicely."

This prompted House's signature pouting face as he pleaded mockingly, "please? Pretty please?"

Wilson sighed at the childish behaviour, but stood up and began heading towards the door anyway. "Fine," he huffed, "but no running away while I'm gone."

"Deal," House agreed, and watched Wilson disappear down the corridor.

XXXXX

When Wilson returned, he noticed that House's eyes had drifted closed again, and assumed that the man had fallen asleep. Closing the door softly behind him so as not to wake his friend, he snuck across the room to place the coffee down on the bedside table, but as he got nearer to the bed, he saw that one of House's hands was clenched in the fabric of his pants, right above his injured thigh. He sighed, realising what was really going on, and gently placed a hand on House's shoulder.

"House?"

"Yeah." House's voice was pained, coming out through gritted teeth.

"Is it your leg?"

"No, it's my left ear," he sneered. "Of course it's my leg. I haven't had a Vicodin since last night."

"Do you really think I'm going to give you one now?"

"Well, I did think you were going to be nice. Clearly I was wrong."

Wilson was torn. He knew House was in a lot of pain, and that it wouldn't ease until he'd had his painkillers, but he was apprehensive about administering Vicodin after the events of the day before. As he was weighing his options, House let out a sudden gasp of agony and almost doubled over on himself, giving Wilson no choice but to concede to House's wishes.

"Fine," he relented. "I will give you _a_ Vicodin. But the bottle stays with me, and you're not allowed to trick anyone else into giving you more."

"Your wish is my command," House replied sarcastically, trying his best to push the pain out of his mind until he'd been given the drugs.

Having confirmation of House's co-operation, Wilson hastily made his way out of the room, hurrying off in the direction of the pharmacy, and House was left alone, no longer having Wilson's company to distract him from his leg. He glanced around for anything to help take his mind off it, and spotted the coffee that had been left on his nightstand. Reaching out with a lightly trembling hand, he grabbed the cup and brought it to his lips, lifting up his oxygen mask so that he could take a sip of the boiling liquid. It scorched his throat as he drank it, having only been poured minutes earlier, but he found this to be a respite from the discomfort in his leg and continued to consume it with relish. He was finishing off the final drops when Wilson returned, a reassuring flash of orange protruding from the oncologist's pocket.

"That was quick," Wilson remarked as he watched House place the empty cup back on the bedside.

"Thirsty," House replied quickly. "Got the drugs?"

"Yeah." He removed the bottle from his jacket, popped open the cap and slid a tablet onto House's outstretched hand. "You can have more when you need it."

"Thanks," responded House, bringing his hand to his mouth and tipping the pill rapidly down his throat. He could only hope that it kicked in soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**AN – At long last, I have returned with another chapter! Sorry for the huge delay, I've been working on Scars pretty much exclusively and it took me ages to finish Chapter 7. I'm trying to alternate between the two, as writing them simultaneously is getting my brain mixed up, so expect my next update to be for the other story. Anyway, on with Painless!**

 **To OldSFfan: He does indeed, it's one of the hallmarks of their friendship. Wilson always knew that House had certain issues with his mental wellbeing, but now that he has finally been tipped over the edge, they're both going to have to start taking it a lot more seriously. Will House admit he has a serious problem though? You'll have to read on and see.**

XXXXX

"This is ridiculous," House grumbled, glaring up at the sign above the door as he hovered hesitantly outside. After spending a couple days under observation in the ICU, he had been discharged that morning, and had had the naïve intention of heading straight home to his own welcoming bed for all of about 30 seconds before he had been hastily redirected towards the psychiatric ward, Cuddy's threat to suspend him if he didn't follow through with the referral making him cautious of evading her orders. Now, he was standing outside the ward in question, reluctant to advance any further but knowing that he didn't really have a choice. Predictably, Wilson had followed him there, eager to see that he didn't run away from his commitment, and House was finding his best friend's presence more of an annoyance than a comfort, feeling embarrassed to have a witness to predicament.

"You know, you're never going to get this over with if you don't go in," Wilson teased gently, sensing House's reluctance but knowing that putting this off was just going to make the situation worse.

"I know," House replied, an unusual tone of resignation in his voice. "God, why did I do this, Wilson? I screwed everything up, I'm sorry."

Wilson was somewhat taken aback by this comment. He'd been expecting House's typical sarcastic and mocking attitude, so he was momentarily speechless at the diagnostician's brutal honesty, not anticipating him to voluntarily make himself appear so vulnerable.

"House…" he responded slowly, making sure to choose his words carefully. "You didn't. This assessment… It isn't to punish you, it's to help you. Cuddy just wants you to get better. _I_ want you to get better." He paused as he studied House's face sympathetically, not missing the way the other man was deliberately avoiding his gaze. "You have to go in and at least _try_ to listen to what they tell you, okay?"

House let out a deep sigh, then answered slowly, "okay." After a moment, he finally lifted his eyes from the floor and glanced up at Wilson's face, feeling suddenly self-conscious as he saw his friend watching him carefully. "You don't have to come with me, you know. I'm a big boy, I can handle myself."

"I wanted to make sure you're okay," Wilson explained softly. "I know you weren't thrilled by the prospect of this appointment."

"I'll be fine, Wilson," House countered quickly, beginning to regain his air of self-assurance as he straightened up and placed a hand confidently on the door to the ward, pushing it open and striding through into the narrow corridor. "See? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to see the wizard."

"When you're done, come to my office and we'll go to lunch. My treat."

"Then I'm ordering steak!" House shot back over his shoulder, already turned to limp down the hall towards his consultation room. Wilson smiled to himself, but was unable to reply before the door swung shut once more, obscuring House from his view.

XXXXX

House wasn't sure what about the assessment was making him so uncomfortable. The lighting was stark, the room sparingly furnished with hard plastic chairs, but he worked in this hospital, he was used to its harsh décor. His initial evaluation of the psychiatrist was that the man was beyond useless, a "touchy-feely moron", as he planned to later describe him to Wilson, but he'd met plenty of those types before. Each individual aspect of the consultation was more than within his abilities to cope with, to brush off with some sarcastic comment in his mind, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

Until he realised that he'd have to say those words.

The psychiatrist's question echoed in his ears, bouncing through his head over and over again, momentarily freezing him in place. As the other doctor studied the hollow expression on his face, he mistook it for lack of hearing his enquiry, so he slowly repeated, "Dr House, what brings you here today?"

The question was simple enough, nothing that he shouldn't have been expecting. Yet the realisation that he'd have to admit what he'd done, to speak the truth out loud, quite frankly terrified him. His mind felt like the only asset he had left, his intelligence and keen eye were what made him valuable, but now everyone would be calling that into question. It hadn't hit him before, but now visions of all those around him losing confidence in his mental faculties started swarming through his brain, and it began to overwhelm him. He ran a hand briskly over his face, trying to focus on the feeling of the rough stubble under his fingertips as he pushed his doubts as far out of his mind as he could, before finally replying in a resigned tone, "I… tried to kill myself."

He saw the psychiatrist immediately pause from the notes he had been scribbling down, and, after a moment, he looked up to meet House's gaze. "I see," he commented slowly, his voice measured as he spoke. "That's… pretty serious."

House scoffed. "Yeah." His own gaze drifted around the room, landing on every point except the psychiatrist's face.

"I know this is not a simple question, but… can you tell me anything about why you did it?"

Suddenly House felt extremely out of his depths. He hadn't anticipated the session to become so demanding so rapidly, and as he was trying to formulate a response, he found all coherent words leaving him. Honestly, he wasn't sure _he_ even knew why he'd done it, let alone how to convey this to another person. All he could remember were tiny snippets of information, a mistake with a patient, his leg hurting, but he couldn't for the life of him assemble them into some sort of rational order. It frustrated him, not having a handle on his emotions when he prided himself on noticing the smallest traits of them in others, but he found that there was not much he could do about it at that current moment. As he sat there miserably trying to piece together everything he could recall from that night, he noticed a common theme running through each thread, and eventually he was able to form his reply.

"Pain," he said simply.

"Pain?" the psychiatrist repeated. "Any particular sort? I noticed you use a cane, is that the kind of pain you mean?"

House nodded reluctantly. "Part of it," he explained, realising that he was being surprisingly honest with the therapist and knowing that it had to be Wilson's influence on him. "I guess it was everything. Everything felt painful. My life was painful. I just wanted it to be over."

"Do you still feel like that now?"

The diagnostician considered this for a moment. Almost nothing had changed since that night, yet the thought of attempting it again now made him feel… guilty. It confused him for a moment, before he remembered the thing that had struck him the most when he'd awoken in the ICU. He remembered the emotion he'd seen in Wilson's eyes, how broken his friend looked sitting in that hospital room, and how selfish it had made him feel for what he'd done. Thinking back to that moment, he knew that he had his answer.

"No," he responded confidently.

"Good, that's very good. Do you know what's different today?"

For the first time, House was able to meet the psychiatrist's gaze. "Yes, I've found someone worth sticking around for."

XXXXX

Tick, tick, tick.

He'd barely sat down at his desk, and already the clock was driving him mad.

Tick, tick, tick.

He sighed, dragging a hand wearily through his hair as he attempted to return his focus to the folder in front of him.

 _Tick, tick, tick._

Right, enough was enough. Wilson slammed the folder shut as he stood abruptly, then strode over to the balcony door and stepped out onto the ledge, leaning on the partition wall to steady himself. The gentle breeze that greeted him began to calm his restlessness, and he turned around to gaze out at the view, watching the faint forms of people scurrying around below him with mild interest. After a moment, his gaze drifted to the office opposite, and, deciding that that was as good a place as any to wait for his friend to return from his appointment, he hopped over the wall and placed a hand on the door handle, relieved when it swung open without resistance. Peeking in, he saw that the office was cluttered as usual, House's little toys and distractions scattered across the surfaces, but the desk was clear, and Wilson gratefully crossed the room and sank into the chair, shrugging his jacket off and folding his arms on the table to provide a decent pillow for his head. He gradually allowed his eyes to drift closed, comforted by the overwhelming House-ness of his surroundings, and for the first time in several days he could feel himself beginning to properly relax.

He hadn't meant to actually fall asleep, and only released that he had when he was roused almost an hour later by a continuous clicking noise, one that was growing louder with each repetition. His first disoriented thought was that it was his clock ticking once again, until he began to return to his senses and noticed that he was in House's office rather than his own. Focussing his attention back on the noise to determine its real cause, his post-sleep daze finally lifted and he immediately recognised the sound as the clicking of House's cane. He looked up just in time to see the door swing open, and his friend stepped assuredly across the threshold.

"Normally I'm the one breaking into your office," House remarked upon seeing Wilson sat at his desk, a hint of a smirk creeping onto his face.

"Well, what can I say? I fancied a role reversal," Wilson replied casually, leaning back in House's chair to make himself look at home.

"Does this mean that you have to start acting all miserable, and I have to start actually caring? Yeah, that's not going to happen," scoffed House, limping across to the recliner and gently lowering himself down onto it.

Wilson hesitated for a moment, before sitting up in his chair and asking gently, "so… what did the psychiatrist say?" He gathered by House's immediate look of exasperation that the meeting hadn't been overly productive.

"The guy was a touchy-feely moron," House mocked. "He wanted to explore _why_ I did what I did, all the feelings that led up to it. How the hell am I supposed to know what happened?"

"Well… you were the one it happened to."

"I know. He just… he wanted all these answers that I didn't have… It felt like I didn't know what was going on in my own head." The exasperation had faded from House's face, and had been replaced with something that Wilson would almost classify as fear. It startled him for a second, seeing his friend appear so lost, so desperate. He would never have counted House as someone… stable, but he always carried an air of confidence, a projection of control over everything that was going on around him. Seeing him without that mask, having his emotions laid bare for Wilson to see, sparked a deep feeling of discomfort within the oncologist, and he knew that his friend would need a professional to help untangle the web of thoughts inside his brain.

"Did he say what happens next?" Wilson enquired tentatively, anxious to ensure that the psychiatric department was taking House's case seriously.

"He said that I'm not an immediate risk to myself," House explained, his eyes dropping to the floor to avoid Wilson's piercing stare, "so I don't need to be admitted. He's scheduled a follow up for next week. Until then, I'm free to go." This last sentence was spoken with a brighter tone, and House lifted his gaze to meet Wilson's once more. Levering himself up from the recliner, he steadied himself on his cane and added, "on that note, let's go to lunch. You owe me a steak."

Wilson knew that the conversation was over, that House had been as forthcoming as he was going to be for now, and there was nothing to gain by pressing the issue. Instead, he gave a small smile, retrieved his jacket, and agreed, "right, let's go to lunch," watching as his friend was already limping off down the corridor.


End file.
